I've seen more spine in jellyfish
by Procrastinator-starting2moro
Summary: Three rules of Quidditch, one: do not daydream your captain less attired in a Scottish kilt. Two: do not compare the shape of a quaffle to his bottom. Three: do not fall in love with said captain. Too bad Katie’s done all three. KatieOliver. One shot.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** Do give the shipping a chance, if you haven't read any fanfiction of the couple before. And I've made Katie older, I think, than she actually is, for my selfish benefit. The title is taken from the band _Brand New _and their lyrics from the song 'Seventy times 7.'

**I've seen more spine in jellyfish**

You know, I've always had a -shall we say, _thing_- for boys with the Scottish accent. There's just something about the way it's rolled off the tongue, or maybe it's just the way it's rolled off _his_.

Some typical Scottish phrases make me chuckle: '_she's a bonnie lass_', '_whit are ye mollachin aboot_' which apparently has something to do with wandering around aimlessly (though I, myself, can't find anything about wandering in that particular lingo) and '_awa ye go_!'

Of course, _he _doesn't actually say these phrases, but they're funny nonetheless.

"Bell, my dearest, are you planning to play some _good _Quidditch today?"

Ah, there's the eloquent words of my Captain addressing me now.

"Oi, Bell, move your arse!"

...take back that last thought.

I break out of my reverie and look across the Quidditch pitch to find Oliver hovering on his broom across me. His usual, intense 'I'm the Captain and you must obey me' glare doesn't faze me, and I reply with a cheery wave. Immediately after the wave, I let my eyes glaze over and return back to daydreaming.

Maybe it's just the Scottish altogether I find attractive? Not that I know many attractive Scots, but if they're anything like Oliver, I plan to migrate to Scotland this second. By broom. With a packed lunch of finger sandwiches and cauldron cakes.

"Bell!"

Or maybe it's the image of them dressing in kilts? Not that I've seen Oliver in that sort of attire, but let's just say mental images have cropped up in my mind on a numerous number of occasions.

"Bell! Oi, _Bell_!"

Is it really true they wear nothing underneath? I imagine it would feel rather fresh...Ah, here we go: mental images of Mr. Wood flying on a broom, topless and wearing a kilt, on a very windy day - which kind of defeats the object of him being topless and wearing kilt because much would be on display and there would be no point in wearing a kilt in the first place and-

"Hey, Miss DING-DONG!"

I immediately redden at such a nickname and playfully scowl at Oliver. He thinks he's being witty by calling me "Miss Ding-dong" because my surname is 'Bell'. Get it? _Ding-dong? Bell?_

...Yeah, I don't think it's funny either. I think he was deprived of real humour when he was growing up. I sincerely hope he just sticks to the Quidditch.

"Get your head out of the clouds, will you?" Oliver's tone seems quite fierce, but I see a twinkle in his eye when he adds, "Miss Ding-dong."

I smirk, "It's a bit hard to keep my head out of the clouds when I'm flying on a Quidditch broom." I watch him fly a circle around me before halting in my path, cocking an eyebrow. "Captain Tree Bark," I put in.

Get it? Oliver Wood? _Wood? Tree bark?_

...Yeah, I know it's not one of the wittiest titles, but his for me is hardly sharp, is it? Really, we both have poor humour with our naming skills and would make a good couple, don't you think?

"Dear brother, if I ever get to a point in my life where I call you by a lame name like 'Mr. Weasel', please do kill me."

"Do you _even _need to ask, my twin?"

Ugh, Weasley twins. Twice the fun, but twice as much annoyance.

I shoot glares either side of me at the Fred and George who are wearing matching mischievous grins, currently elbowing me in the stomach which makes me wobble slightly on my broom.

"I've heard incest is all the craze these days! Why don't you go try it?"

The two gasp in sync, which I always find amazing as it's so perfectly timed.

"Totally uncalled for, Katie," Fred says. "Dirty minded girl," I hear him mutter, though he looks mildly impressed as though he was the one who taught me the art of good comebacks.

"Too far, Katie. Too far." George shakes his head in mock pity, before shooting off with his beaters bat raised high, hollering an animal cry, with Fred close behind.

"Less of the noises, guys, and more of the beating, before I personally do some to _you_."

Another death threat made by the Gryffindor Captain. Really, it's quite common and we're generally used to the verbal abuse.

"Will you give it a rest, Wood?" Angelina comes up beside me, juggling a quaffle in her hand. "Just relax."

"Take a chill pill," Fred says.

"Collect one self," George adds.

"Loosen up."

"Cool off."

"Breathe easy."

"Hang loose-"

Oliver puts his hand up, signalling Fred and George to be quiet. "Stop right there. I get your point."

Fred looks grateful. "Thank Merlin, 'cause I can't think of any more synonyms for 'relax'."

"How about: 'stop work'?" I suggest. "You know, since we've been doing so much practice lately..."

"I second that," George says, and Angelina and Alicia vigorously nod. I shoot Fred a beseeching look because he hasn't said anything, but he replies the gaze with: "When George says 'I second that', it automatically means I do too."

"Why don't you just say you agree anyway?"

"I don't want to waste my beautiful voice on you, Miss Bell."

"You mean you're too _lazy _to _speak_?"

Fred gawks at me. "Did you hear what she said, Cap'n?" he asks Oliver, pointing at me. "I will not tolerate this kind of oral-"

"Sex."

"No, George, I was going to say oral victimisation. Weren't you channelling my thoughts on that one?"

"Can't say I was, dear brother." Though Oliver looks on the verge of throwing a fit at either one of the Weasleys, all of a sudden, George cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "OI, HARRY!" to the poor boy who has been busy searching the golden snitch for ten minutes; he had been rather disturbed by such rude conversation and preferred practising actual Quidditch - which makes sense, as this is Quidditch practice. "C'mere!" Fred shouts, and, Harry, looking curious, flies over.

"Don't you agree with Miss. Ding Dong here that-"

"Erm, sorry, who now?"

Harry appears quite confused and I sigh.

"He's talking about me, Harry," I explain.

"Oh. Oh, right! _Bell_..._Ding-dong_." Harry laughs quietly. "Sounds kind of rude," he mutters low under his breath.

"I'm quite surprised you two didn't notice that," Alicia tells the twins, looking at them strangely.

"I know!" George presses a hand to his chest. "Maybe we've finally grown up."

I shake my head. Poor naive Alicia...

"You _did _notice and you're only humouring me by agreeing now, aren't you both?" Alicia says.

The twins nod.

"Don't you think we've been working awfully hard lately, Harry?" I say, twitching my right eye for him to answer with a 'yes'. "Don't you think the captain should give us a break?"

It appears Harry doesn't recognize the meaning of my eye twitch, and scratches his head.

"Erm..."

That wasn't the 'yes' I was looking for Harry.

"Go on, Harry." Oliver holds a slightly wound up expression (albeit, a _good looking _wound up expression), while crossing his arms, a pretty impressive trick to do on a broomstick. "Do tell the captain what he _should _be doing."

For bugger's sake. Harry's definitely not going to say 'yes' now. Mr. Tree Bark has frightened him to death. Sometimes Oliver frightens me to death, for Merlin's sake. Plus, Harry's too much of a nice, honest bloke to lie that we've been working too hard, when really we've done bugger all.

I watch Harry cringe. "Well...er..."

"Geez, Wood," says Fred, messing up Harry's unruly hair, "Harry won't say what he really thinks in case you get all psychotic and set next practise before sunrise again!"

I expect a yelling of some sort by Oliver, but he's clearly gone insane as he laughs in uproar, clutching his stomach as his broom tips. I glance at the rest of the team, and we gingerly join; just as we begin to laugh, each wondering what Oliver has found so humorous, he suddenly cuts off into silence, making us shut up in an instant.

"Nice try, guys. Especially you, Katie. Now, get back to quaffle passing."

Merlin, he's such a spoilsport sometimes!

I think I love him.

...Uh, ignore that last thought! And my current shifty eyes...

I try to be more alert as Alicia passes me the quaffle, narrowly avoiding the passing bludgers zooming around the pitch. The Weasley twins seem to be slacking in the beating department this practice, more focused on pointing at me and making kissy noises towards Oliver's direction, behind his back.

Holding the quaffle in my hand, I realise just how..._round _it is.

You could say, a lot like Mr. Tree Bark's bottom.

"Katie, what the hell?"

It appears I dropped the quaffle in such a realization of madness that I had compared an object to my captain's bottom. I watch Angelina swoop below to pick up the quaffle in mid air.

"Are you okay?"

I jump, gripping the handle of my broom, as Oliver appears in front of me, holding an expression of worry. I much prefer that face to his familiarly angry one.

"You seem really out of it," he continues.

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

I find it hard to form words at the moment, rather fond of his worried behaviour. "Mmhmm," I manage to speak.

"Good," Oliver's tone suddenly turns authoritative, back to leader mode, "Now get your act together, Miss Ding-dong."

...wait, what? Argh, bring back caring Oliver! He has more abrupt mood swings than me on my bloody period!

Sighing, I manage to catch the quaffle without dropping it (again) while not comparing it to the shape of Oliver Wood's bo--oh, wait, now I am comparing...I'm thinking about his bottom...Still thinking about his bottom...and now his buttocks have disappeared from my mind. There, only took me around twenty seconds and earned me a look from my team mates that I'm mentally unstable.

"Quidditch involves _passing _the quaffle, Katie," Angelina says slowly.

I cringe, finally letting go of the Oliver-bottom-like quaffle and pass it to my fellow Chaser.

The quaffle passes back and forth between me, Angelina and Alicia, as we swerve and glide through the air, until we reach the other side of pitch where Oliver is guarding the three goals. He motions to Alicia who's holding the quaffle, to shoot past him, and the goal goes straight in the middle hoop as Oliver dives left.

"Nice shot," he smiles at her. "You next, Johnson."

She feigns aiming left first, but at the last second throws right, where the quaffle zooms through the far hoop.

Oliver shakes his head, though appears impressed. "Show off," he remarks.

"As always, Captain," Angelina salutes the air.

Oliver chuckles, until his gaze meets mine and he eyes me somewhat peculiarly. "You're up," he tells me, and the way he addresses me sounds so different to the other girls.

There's something about today that makes me a bumbling idiot, and it shows when I make a feeble attempt of shooting a goal, as the quaffle lands squarely into Oliver's hands without him having to move. I'm not normally like this; in fact, I'm one of the star Chasers at shooting. Oliver furrows his brow at the quaffle in his hands, and then stares at me.

"What was that, Bell?"

I redden. "My attempt at shooting a goal?" I reply uncertainly.

"Too right it was an attempt." Oliver throws the quaffle back at me and it hits me hard in the chest. "Again," he orders simply.

Come on, Katie. Concentrate!

My eyes study the quaffle in my hands.

_Mr. Tree bark's bottom..._

Shut up!

Taking a deep breath in and out, I soar through the air. I raise the quaffle high in one arm as the other holds the broom handle, and aim for the middle goal.

My second attempt at shooting is even more pathetic that my first; the quaffle barely makes it towards the hoop and Oliver actually has to fly forwards just to catch it. At once, Angelina and Alicia fly over to me, and Alicia prods my arm from a fair distance while Angelina touches my forehead.

"She must be ill," insists Alicia, with panicked eyes. Angelina taps my head and I make an outcry of "Ow!"

"She doesn't have a fever," says Angelina.

Oliver's commanding voice echoes through the air, ordering Angelina and Alicia to get off me. "Again, Bell!" he shouts, practically smacking me in the face with the quaffle. I glare at him, determined to get the next shot through the hoop.

It doesn't get in. And nor does the thirteen try.

...Why is it the quaffle not going in?

Ah, I know! It's been cursed! Someone has cursed it so nobody can score with it!

...wait, that would make no sense, as Angelina and Alicia had previously scored fine with it...unless it only affects me, which I doubt, because that would be too much of a complicated spell. The only other reason for me not scoring would be because:

a) I am too distracted by the idea of the quaffle sharing the same shape as Oliver's bottom.

b) I have lost my Quidditch aptitude.

Oh Merlin, I have lost my Quidditch aptitude!

"What's going on?" Fred and George appear at my side, whilst I continue to gawk in horror.

"Katie's lost her Quidditch aptitude."

"I have not lost my Quidditch aptitude!" I snap at Angelina in denial.

"Katie, why are you, er, _groping _that quaffle?"

Oh dear God...

I freeze, look at my hands, and then shove the quaffle into George's hands. There is no way it could be the 'a' option. The 'a' option was never an option in the first place.

_Mr. Tree bark's bottom..._

"Shut up!"

...I said that out loud, didn't I?

"I don't think she's lost her Quidditch aptitude; I think she's lost her _sanity_-"

"_Shut up_, Fred!"

"_Everyone quieten down_!"

For once I'm happy for Oliver's booming voice, pulling a smug smile to Fred because I assume Oliver mainly told him to hush. I quickly realise Oliver is looking rather annoyed at _me_. What in Merlin's name have I done?

"I've had enough. Quidditch practice is over," Oliver announces. "Same time tomorrow, guys."

I breathe a sigh of relief; I want nothing more to forget this entire practice ever happened. And when I say 'forget', I mean overanalyse. And when I mean 'overanalyse', I mean sob into my pillow.

Bending the tip of my broom handle downwards, I'm about to follow after the rest of the team back to ground, when I realize my broom isn't moving. Muttering an obscurity, I discover someone is holding onto the back of my broom. I glance over my shoulder.

"_Not _you, Bell," Oliver wags a finger at me.

"What?"

"We're not leaving this pitch until you get your Quidditch flair back."

A question dawns on me. "But what happens if it _never _comes back?"

"Looks like we'll be camping, then," Oliver suggests.

Alicia shoots me a sympathetic look. "Do have fun," she says, patting my shoulder and shooting off to the ground.

"Tell Leanne to wait for me outside the portrait!" I yell after her, cupping my hands around my mouth.

"Tell Leanne _not _to wait for her because I'm quite certain we'll be a while," Oliver quips.

...Cheeky sod.

Finally, Oliver lets go of the end of my broom and asks me with what I recognize as concern, "What's up with you today?"

"Look, I'm sorry I'm not shooting my best today," I start, rather touchily.

"Oh, don't apologize to me." I can't help but soften at Oliver's words. "Apologizing doesn't do anything. Really, you should be embarrassed of yourself." Instantly, my smile disappears.

"God, you're such a misery bum sometimes," I can't avoid but mumble. Oliver looks like he's about to snap, but holds back from doing so.

"I'm doing it for your benefit, Katie. I know you can play better than you have today." I can see a sincere expression behind his mask of cool. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. "You've got the potential to be something great."

I like how he always says that, though he's got much more of a chance that I have in succeeding in a Quidditch career in the future. Ever since I met him, he'd tell me every day how he'd join Puddlemore United.

I hope he does.

"We're not leaving until you get it past me." Oliver hands the quaffle to me, and silently I nod.

I go through the same routine, clutching the quaffle in my hands. Bringing back my arm, I hurl it towards the left hoop, but Oliver catches it. A gush of frustration rails through my veins. I punch the air and curse wildly, my voice echoing throughout the Quidditch pitch. I can actually feel my eyes going glossy; not a good sign. I'm not used to the feeling of failing.

I slump my shoulders when I say, "I give up, Oliver!"

He replies, smoothly calm, "_No_, you're not giving up."

"I'm going back inside!" I swerve out of Oliver's grasp before he grabs onto the end of my broom again, making my way towards the grass below.

"Come on, Kate! I've seen more spine in jellyfish!"

I glance back, halting on my broom. "Jellyfish have no spine."

Oliver smirks - a rather handsome one, to my dismay. "Exactly."

...I will get the next goal in, even if it Avada Kedavra's me.

"The trouble is you're throwing the quaffle way too weak," Oliver says, as he hands me it, and I'm barely listening to him, as all I can hear is the blood pumping _rage _though my body. He flies over to the hoops as he carries on speaking, "What you have to do is throw it harder, with aggression. With force. Throw it like you're angry at me. You need strength and power when you swing back your arm and--WAAAH!"

The quaffle hurls through the air, knocks Oliver's on the nose, and bounces off into the right hoop.

About bloody time and all!

...Oh dear.

"My nose!" he cries.

I rush forward in horror, paling at the sight of pints of blood pouring from his nostrils.

"I'm so sorry!" I apologize, flapping my hands.

"I said shoot the goal, not try to assassinate me!"

"Crap, I'm really sorry!" My eyes are watery for sure now as I watch Oliver's pained expression. Unsure what to do, I shoot my hands forward and help block his nose with my hands.

"What are you doing, Kate?" Oliver tries to recoil but I keep my hands on his nose, watching the blood seep through my fingers. "You're getting blood all over you!"

I roll my eyes, "As if I would ever care if it was your blood."

I watch his intense gaze on me, before he softly takes my hand off his nose. The blood's draining less now as he wipes his nostrils on his sleeve.

"Katie," he starts gently.

"Are we ever going to give us a go?"

He looks embarrassed at my question, avoiding my gaze. "You're a great girl, Katie, but..."

"I'm just a kid," I finish.

I try to read his expression but he's masking himself pretty well. He bites on his lip before agreeing timidly, "Yeah…"

"I'm fifteen, not ten years old, Oliver."

He chuckles, something that is inappropriate for this conversation. "You act like it," he smiles roguishly.

"You're hardly mature yourself!" I bite back. I glare at the grass below but it only makes me feel sicker than I already do.

"It would never work," he tells me gently. "I'm leaving Hogwarts soon, Kate, I'm not gonna to be here-"

"You're not even _willing _to try!" my voice cuts through the air.

Oliver shakes his head, "Because if we did, and I ended up falling in love you, it would be too hard for me to go..."

There's sense behind his words, but I'm too angry to find the logic. "You know what," I begin irately; "I hope you leave Hogwarts and I _never _see you again."

He grabs on to the end of my room, stopping me from shooting off. I tumble into his chest and it looks like he wants to embrace me in pity. I could never accept a hug from him which had sympathy behind it.

Pushing Oliver's hand off my broom, I shove him away, before flying off towards the ground, ignoring his cries of my name.

--------

Ever since that day I haven't said two words to him. Days have passed into weeks, and finally into months. I admit, Quidditch practices were tense, but the only acknowledgement I gave him was my indifferent stare. The others on the Quidditch team wondered what had happened between us, knowing our usual Quidditch skills weren't up to standard, and the undeniable easiness towards each other was gone. It was as though I'd lost the motivation to play Quidditch; I only ever really played my best to make _him _happy.

He tried to corner me a few times to talk to me, but I always ran away. I'd said what I wanted to say, and meant it; there was nothing left that needed to be voiced. He was going to leave Hogwarts and grow up for good, and I would remain in the castle.

At long last, I thought I'd gotten over him.

Until today.

We're alone in the Gryffindor common room and I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding onto the wall as if to stable myself.

It's his last day at Hogwarts, and he's wearing a kilt. A Scottish kilt.

I swallow, feeling myself melt under his usual heated gaze. "Oliver." My voice sounds hoarse when I speak to him. It's as though they haven't been used in months; which is true, when it come him and me speaking. "Why are you...?"

"Wearing a kilt?" He looks happy to speak to me again. I've missed his soothing voice; that wonderful accent. "Mum and dad made me wear it. Have to for my last day; for Scottish pride, apparently."

He looks cute.

"_You _look cute _everyday_," he points out to me. Apparently my thought of him being charming was voiced from my mind without my consent, and I blush.

"Promise you'll write to me?"

"_You know _I will," Oliver insists. He's so close now he's tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Three hundred and sixty five letters, you'll have."

"My owl won't cope."

"I don't think I will either. Without you, I mean."

Knowing I'm never going to get another opportunity to kiss a bloke in a kilt, I use one hand to grab the collar of his shirt and the other to hold his neck, kissing him with craving that's been locked up inside of me for too long.

To answer your question: yes, his bottom does feel as round as a quaffle's. It's so perfectly shaped it makes me laugh into his mouth.

Today, I discover something that's even better than kissing someone...

Someone kissing you back.


End file.
